One-Thousand Four-Hundred Sixty Days
by kusegoto
Summary: Absence, hearts, fondness, all of that - it weighs on Dallas, even after Hoxton comes back.


It begins when Wolf punches the bank manager.

They all met days before, of course, in the last days of September, as October came over them. They know their names, and they know their faces. But it is the afternoon of the twenty-first that it means something - it means guns, it means money. It means drills, bullets, and Wolf, pulling on Dallas' sleeve silently, pointing to the body like a child that has made a mistake.

He swipes Wolf's hand off of him and gestures to the heap on the ground. "Don't just—fucking _stand there,_ Wolf, did you _check?"_

Chains and Hoxton are at the door. They look behind them, and Hoxton keeps his head back, watching Wolf nervously kneel down. "Everything alright back here?"

Wolf presses two fingers against the man's throat - clumsy. He shakes his head, the mask loose, and that makes Dallas visibly despair. "No—no no, I don't think he's okay."

Dallas pushes him out of the way with the stock of the rifle, grabbing the key card that fell from the man's hands - who had previously been just holding it out. It rests in one of his suit's pockets, and he has to pull Wolf to his feet with one hand. "Cleaner's coming out of _your_ share, Wolf."

"He's a little _nervous_ , ain't ya, Wolfie?" Hoxton taunts, eyes back down the hall. Chains lifts a hand, gesturing the two men forward.

"They're going to be returning soon," Chains remarks, head turning for just a moment - it's been a month, and Dallas can tell where Chains' eyes remain when he's in the moment. It's going to be something Dallas respects. "Back to the gate - get the drill running."

"Whenever you're ready, gentlemen," Hoxton says. He is calm, he is careful - he takes respite for a moment, and then returns to the task at hand. Bit by bit, Dallas picks apart what each of them are, watching how they breathe, watching how they speak. It's how he is. It's how he works. Hoxton's eyes are back at the two men behind him, and even behind Kevlar black, Dallas can tell he's looking at him.

"Pull your socks up - let's get it on!"

* * *

It goes well. _Terrifically,_ actually.

The car arrives on time. The bags are heavy, but that's what makes them worth it. The masks come off, the guns are hidden, and Hoxton is grinning.

"Fuckin' _brilliant,"_ he says, out of breath, staring at the wall of the truck before anyone else. Dallas is across; Chains is next to him. It's - different, seeing how the mask folds when you take it off. Dallas has worn his all but twice before this afternoon - the first time he acquired it, and last night. Both were to adjust to size, and both times it went back to its storage. It folds in Hoxton's hands, Chains', Wolf's. Like a second identity.

It's all a story he knows well. He's grinning back; just as ecstatic, just as out of breath. Bain sits in their ears, but the congratulations go over Dallas' head. Hoxton tosses the mask into the black bag between them all, and Dallas is the second to put his own in. Ahead, Matt has the radio on, and it's something old, about hot Julys and exciting love.

It's different. He likes it. They're never going back, and that's the exciting part.

* * *

Matt reveals himself to be a rat. They steal a printing press in Florida. Hoxton wants a diamond.

The pressure sensitive room has an alarm that pierces Dallas' hearing. There are bullets behind him - one tries to pierce the glass and fails, but it misses Hoxton's head.

Chains and Wolf are closer to the entrance, and - Dallas hopes - they fire back at the retaliation. Dallas grips Hoxton's shoulder as he lifts the glass cutter to the case, watching him set it. He's careful - he's always been careful, levelheaded, calm. The bullet continues to ring through his ears but he keeps his eyes on the cutter's knife, the circular hole being carved into glass. Dallas has his gun in his hand - but he's watching.

The precision reminds him of a burglar. Maybe his experience back in England was robberies just like this. Hoxton looks at him, with the giant diamond between them, and Dallas can tell he's smiling from the way the mask stretches against his cheeks.

"Look at this thing," he says, with a short laugh. "It'll make this all worth it."

"Will it?" Dallas asks, but notes it sounds far more serious than how the excitement boils within. "Shit, what we make off that, could send us all around the world."

"And twice over again," Hoxton replies, carefully lowering the jewel and its container into the bag already heavy with jewelry. "Might nick one of these for myself, before we hand it over."

"Don't tell me you're seeing someone," Dallas says, and it makes Hoxton laugh, wicked.

"I've left my options open, don't worry."

* * *

There are meant to be lulls in passionate crime - to cover your tracks, close the doors. The hiding part is easy, if you can handle the itch that comes with it.

Hoxton smokes. He's known that for a while, but it's always been in the back of the building, where the street can't see in and the walls surrounding the back area have no windows. It's different to be closer to him while he smokes - this time in the passenger seat of the van, with Dallas next to him. The keys are in, to keep the windows open.

It's night time. He doesn't know how they got into the van, but it was better than standing in the falling snow.

"Have enough here for the two of us," Hoxton says, passed between them and almost forgotten. Like the smoke that lingers, filtering out of the van.

"I'd only want one," Dallas replies, like it's meant to make him give up asking. Hoxton gestures the cigarette towards him, embers up, and Dallas slowly turns his head to look, contemplate, and then take it. It's a fresh one, but sharing it won't make it last very long.

"Fuckin' boring, just sittin' around," Hoxton muses, pinching his fingers together, like he's forgotten he doesn't have the cigarette anymore. It's some brand specifically brought from England. Having the money for that is still something they're all getting used to. "You know how long we're 'sposed to wait?"

"However long until Bain decides we're ready again." Dallas feels the rumble of his phone for a moment, looking to its screen with the interested hope that it'll be Hoxton's wish granted - it's just Wolf. Dallas shakes his head and puts it away. "Could be until the New Year, you know."

"Don't know if I want to be luggin' shit through the snow, anyhow." Hoxton reaches to the cigarette, and takes it back. Dallas grimaces when the smoke lingers too long in his lungs, but making a fuss isn't work it. "Maybe wait 'til the spring. Fuck it, summer. Hey - you know somethin'?"

Dallas looks over. Hoxton takes a drag of the cigarette before continuing.

"I was born in July."

"That's fitting. You seem the Cancer type."

"Christ, don't tell me you're into that hogwash." Hoxton shakes his head, and keeps the cigarette for another drag. "Load of shite, 's what it is."

Dallas' smile is wry, but humorous. "It's harmless shit, Jim. Gives me something to read."

Hoxton's eyes roll, and when he offers the cigarette back, the smoke is gently blown at his face. Dallas swipes at the air with another grimace, and Hoxton grins. "Alright, Nate. When's yours?"

It tells a lot about him that he has to remember. "November."

"Shit, missed it? Should've asked sooner."

You weren't missing much, you know."

"Sure." The silence returns, but it's not much - just a shared cigarette, and the breathing that comes with it. "Next year - you want somethin'? Maybe we can rob a grocery store for some baked shit."

"Look at you, thinking ahead." Dallas holds on to the cigarette - the ash is warm on his fingers, and the light is low once again. "Next year."

* * *

Hoxton is arrested on the nineteenth of January. He is found guilty just a week later. For protection's sake, none of them went to the trial. The last he heard Hoxton's voice was a final reassuring voice message that he'll get himself out of this shit.

The lawyer Bain quietly passed his way didn't fix the problem.

The building is too empty, even with three men lingering within. There's less smoke, less boiling water, less planning, less anxiously reloading and unloading the same pistol, over and over, waiting for Bain to call them back.

Dallas sits in the chair Hoxton would sit at, when he would try to get Wolf to see who could drink the hardest drink they had the fastest. He sits in his seat to make it feel less different, and all it does is make him think of Jim rounding the corner from the washroom and telling him _out of my seat._

Wolf doesn't lift his head from whatever he's tinkering with. Could be a locked box, could be a bomb. Dallas finds he doesn't really care. The twisting of the screwdriver is the only thing he's focusing on - it's better than trying to talk between them so Jim can come back, tell him to move, slam a bottle between himself and Wolf, and dare him for the third time that night.

It's better than that. Better to get a headache at this point.

"Something on your mind?" Chains doesn't - _get it,_ right this moment. Not the _it_ of Jim's incarceration, mind, because he knows that, gets that; it's the _it_ of keeping quiet before Dallas' head erupts from the bomb left behind.

Dallas runs a hand down his face instead of saying something he'd regret. "Lots."

"Bain's looking into it," Chains says, and Chains has been saying that for three weeks. The building gets smaller each time, the rooms becoming limited to the dirty kitchen and three bedrooms that are slowly becoming stripped of their contents, moved to different buildings, apartments, homes - moving out is a slow process when you can't just up and sell the place. "Don't know if anything's going to come of it."

"No shit," Dallas says, a terse sigh when he stands up. Wolf doesn't look at him; Chains does. Dallas crosses the room, towards the entrance.

"You leaving?" Chains asks again, and Dallas shrugs, even though he's already by the door, between the front they've created and the reality he's looking towards.

"I need to make a call."

* * *

Asking his little brother to take the same name is a big mistake - bigger than not going to the viewing.

Witness gallery.

It was practically a funeral.

He's not - _eager,_ in the right way, the way Jim and Wolf were, but he does the job. Builds the room to fit like what he'd imagine bank robbers decorate their place like. Fixes and moves the posters so they can put maps and dossiers between them. Changes the cabinets for the guns. Hes always been particular, neat and tidy, organized. Dallas is proud of him, even through the dull heart he has.

Dallas watches (Hoxton) clean for the third time this afternoon. His mind is not on (Hoxton). It's on the last memory of Jim, grinning and offering another cigarette when they stole a moment in Twitch's van. (Hoxton) notices, but pretends he doesn't - he can always tell when Dallas is watching him, and he's stopped asking what for.

"You," his little brother starts, hesitating. "… have you ever been to D.C?"

Dallas thinks for a moment. Thinking about something else is agonizing, because he forgets a bit more about Jim each time. But he has to, and he does. "Only moving through. Getting started in the capital's sounded too much for me, but I suppose Bain's got something for us."

"You've ever met him?"

"Bain?"

(Hoxton) nods. He sits differently than Jim - of course he does. He's not Jim. He's his little brother. The name, the mask near the table's edge, he's a new person -

"Nobody has. If they have, they don't want to tell us."

They both look down and away. Dallas stands up. "I'm going outside for a moment. Pack up your own stuff soon, Hox."

* * *

It takes two years.

* * *

 _"It's PAYDAY, fellas!"_

He's just behind the wall, just past the stone, the concrete, he's there, all marked and waiting -

Hoxton doesn't measure the C4 properly. It cuts through Jim's leg, and when Dallas rips the shrapnel out of him, he screams and slams a fist into the wall next to him to starve the pain. Jim grabs Dallas like he's never got to hold him before, getting the last of his injured strength to hold on, glare and grin all at the same time.

"You lot gonna stand around-" Jim looks around, between Wolf, between Chains, between Hoxton. His glare is potent, and he's not going to let him hear the end of it, pointing out the mask as feeble hiding method for his younger brother. Dallas can always tell when his brother's trying to look away like he wants to hide. "You're _really_ going to—fucking walk up to me like that, _huh?"_

Hoxton properly looks away this time.

"I'm talkin' to you!"

"Jim," Dallas says, and he doesn't show it, doesn't have the chance to show it, but saying his name is better than anything else, better than blowing the rocks apart and better than killing everyone who kept him away from him. Saying his name makes it worth it.

It's all he says. Jim glares up at him, from the side with the burns. What, why, how, and who - all questions he doesn't get to ask.

"Get me out of here," Jim hisses, gripping Dallas' shoulders with more anger than desperation. He wants to say he likes that, but he's not sure.

Jim gives Hoxton one last _"fuckface."_ before he shuts up and hobbles out on Dallas' arm.

* * *

The FBI, the escape, the files. Jim rests his injured leg on the server in the back, propped up and ignoring the blood, and Dallas watches him.

Jim doesn't look at him. But his hand hasn't left Dallas' shoulder since they reunited for the second time, after the concrete, the walls, the escape, the glass door - it's back. He's back. Wolf is looking at the street. If it was just them - well. Dallas doesn't know what he'd do. Hold him, put the gun down, rest it between their laps to bring him closer. Take off the mask to move even closer than that, just to risk it all.

Let Jim punch him for taking two years. Anything.

The ride to the safe house is quiet, guns down, masks off. Dallas looks at him with his real eyes, past the Kevlar - Jim finally looks over, and he's stern. Familiar, but harder, much harder, made to be harder.

"You gonna get me a beer when we get home?" Jim asks. His voice is hoarse from the screaming. Dallas' smile is a little empty, but it's got enough warmth to wait, like a candle.

"I've got something better," Dallas says, and digs through his pockets - the cigarette box has been crushed and the sticks pressed together, but they're still usable.

"Fucking hell, you know how to make up for taking your time." There's a lot more life to him when he reaches for the cigarettes, smacking the glass of the back window to get Houston's attention. "Press the cigarette lighter - get a move on, fucker."

He looks at Dallas. The glower is gone. An unlit cigarette dangles between his fingers. He doesn't smile - maybe he's not going to smile for the rest of the trip, rest of the day, rest of his life. But he looks appreciative. Dallas leans back and doesn't take his eyes off him.

* * *

It takes a long time for Jim— _Hoxton_ , and as much as he loves his little brother, Jim is the real Hoxton—to settle in. Settle into a real bed with a real mattress, settle into being able to do things. He hasn't gained weight or lost the last of his muscle in prison—allegedly, Matt helped refine that mass—but that doesn't mean he can still use a gun.

"Of course I can still use a fucking gun," Jim snaps, fumbling with the pistol. Wick watches on, arms folded, frowning. He's always frowning. He frowns more than Old Hoxton. Old-New Hoxton, the one who glares at everything, and smokes harder than before, and has burns all over his face. The one who is bitter, angrier, and lost the calm-under-pressure demeanor. Wick still frowns more than that.

"You should dedicate yourself to more training before you join us in the field," Wick muses, and Jim rolls his eyes before glaring at him once more.

"I don't need a fuckin' lecture about it. Just let me fire it or somethin'." Jim loads the pistol and aims down it. Dallas can see that Wick bristles, even with the safety node on. Jim's frown manages to deepen, an angry glare directed towards nothing. "I hate this fucking place. Can we get something better than a _shitting_ laundromat?"

Wick looks like he's going to say something, then doesn't. He gets up, off the counter, and walks himself out, arms still folded. Dallas looks towards the table, where Jim has lowered the gun. He crosses the room and takes a seat - the same way he'd do before. Jim notices - the silence hits them harder than it's ever before.

Jim looks away, then towards the gun, holding it in his hands to move it between, turning it around, turning the safety on and off like a switch. He's fixing to say something, so something. Dallas' own hands are folded, and it takes a while for him to exhale a sigh.

"You look different with short hair," Dallas remarks, and Jim—Hoxton—reaches up to scratch the back.

"Don't say it looks good. Fucking hate what I did to it." He scratches closer to the hairline, where his burn scars fade into the hair. "Not cuttin' it again. Going back to the old cut."

Dallas unfolds his hands, laying them flat on the table. They're remarkably close to the hand that holds the gun. Hoxton can see—and he might want to move, but doesn't. Dallas wants to move closer, but doesn't. The gesture is all it is meant to be - tentative, an offering.

"Didn't know we were openin' our doors to others now," Hoxton remarks, looking to where Wick left instead. "John-motherfucking-Wick, huh."

"It was Chains' idea," Dallas hurriedly says, and it makes Hoxton—Jim—roll his eyes. He can't decide on what to call him.

 _"It was Chains' idea._ Alright - I call the next recruit," he says while bringing his head back, looking at Dallas - finally. Dallas stares. Hoxton keeps his hands on the table, one now flat and equal to Dallas' own. They're close. Dallas wants it to be closer, but he doesn't know, nor think, if it should be. He can't tell if Hoxton thinks the same; it'll be a bit until he learns what replaced the calm cues and the levelheaded tells he once had.

Hoxton looks down at their hands. Maybe he's thinking. He has to be, because he stands up and leaves, gun on the table. "I'm going to go."

"Goodnight," Dallas says. He doesn't know why he said it. Hoxton lingers in the doorway, back turned, and then leaves.

* * *

Her name is Clover. She's here for their next diamond. Hoxton wasn't kidding when he said the next recruit was his.

It's been a long time since they've done it quiet - so much that Dallas' back hurts. Hoxton notices, and even with his new mask - burned, painted, a more wicked smile than his old one ever could have - he can still tell when he smiles. Even if it's more of a smirk, now, lop-sided and wry.

The chamber of the Hope Diamond is greater than any of them thought it could be. The tiles are made of stone, the statues are made of ancient clay. Clover sets up the pathway, and guides the two men that remain with her forward over the path.

Dallas looks behind him, at Clover by the box and Wick at the entrance - to look forward, Hoxton pulls him by the wrist, gun holstered. The path is short, but they are wary where they walk. Dallas stares at the back of Hoxton's head, where the hair is growing past his mask's straps. He thinks, oddly, of Wolf's mask shaking so many years ago.

The Diamond illuminates in the blue light. Hoxton lifts the glass cutter to the case, and Dallas watches him set it - once again. He's careful, even after so long. Maybe it's just the bullets missing, and the silence between them in the museum's evening. The glass makes an ugly sound when there's no firefight to mask it. Hoxton lifts it carefully from its case, and looks at Dallas.

"Look at this thing," he says, with a short laugh. Dallas wonders if he realizes. Maybe he does, maybe he doesn't. "Gorgeous, innit?"

There's a lot on Dallas' mind. _Yes, sure, you are, it is, remember the ring, do you still have the ring?_ Instead, he nods. Hoxton places the diamond in a small box, cushioned with velvet. The delicate nature is almost unfamiliar - he's known a whole new man for these months. The change is - what he likes, but he continues to think about what he's adjusted to. Anger. The new-old. The bitterness.

At least he's not cursing Dallas for taking too long to find him.

Bain's on the comms. He warns them about someone coming inside. They turn back down the path, box in Hoxton's hands, and Hoxton on Dallas' mind.

* * *

"Did you _have_ to _burn_ the place down?"

"Of course. I was getting tired of waiting. Had to send our pal a fuckin' message."

Dallas sinks his face into his open palm.

It's a nice place - the glass windows are possibly his favourite, even if it's a strange thing to remark, like complimenting fake succulents, or telling Chains he's done a great job with the guns. The space is different - better than hiding in basements with guns in every box around you, better than going into each room with a new person in it. Now, you can move from hallway to kitchen without stepping in on someone's latest plan, mess, toy, or all three, if your name is Sydney. Of course, Dallas stays with Hoxton, and Hoxton stays with Dallas.

Anything to get me away from your twat of a brother, so he claims, but it feels a bit more familiar. It's been a while. More people are here. Russian hockey players, Scottish brawlers, mute freaks with animal masks. But past the code names and the plans, Dallas finds himself thinking of one person. Always has. He may always will.

Hoxton's hands roam down - and out comes a cigarette. He lights it, with a lighter made of steel and engraved with whatever etching he could manage to create, and the first pull bring air that Dallas wants to indulge in. His wish is granted when Hoxton holds out the cigarette.

"Old times," is all he says. His mind lingers in the past, but it's getting better - less contempt. Still the same amount of rage, but that's what Dallas knows now. He takes the cigarette and breathes it in, grimacing again at the initial taste. Hoxton doesn't notice. He stands close, closer, to Dallas.

"You know," Hoxton says, as Dallas occupies himself on tar and bitter wanting. "It's almost Halloween."

"I'll be sure to tell Wolf to lay off the horror movies," Dallas says, holding the cigarette. Hoxton rolls his eyes.

"I don't mean that." He reaches forward and takes it from Dallas - gingerly. He holds it between two fingers, and it's different from the pinch he used to do. "You never told me the date."

"Of?"

"Your fuckin' birthday, twat."

Dallas manages to hold in the surprise. "The sixth."

"Brilliant. I'll have a new mask painted, just for you." Hoxton takes another drag, as Dallas remains incredulous. "What? Spoiled the surprise? Thought you hated 'em. Had to let you know."

"You don't have to do anything for me, Jim." Dallas folds his arms, lowering his head and staring at the short space between both of their bodies. "I didn't do anything for you back in July."

"Dunno - you got us an old bastard biker to deal with. Counts as a gift." Hoxton holds the cigarette to Dallas, before noting he isn't looking. He draws it back to himself - the smoke follows in a thin plume. "Guess I'll be gettin' you some beer or somethin' instead, then."

Dallas looks up - watches Hoxton from the corner of his eye, through the thin layer of smoke. When there's nothing in the way, he kisses Jim.

The cigarette is warm, so close to their faces. It strengthens the smell and taste of ash in Jim's mouth, taken and held by Dallas. What stops the worry in his chest is how Jim lingers, lets Dallas linger, lets Dallas take the arm that holds the cigarette and pulls him closer, to eradicate the space between them, and hold only them. Dallas remains, and he stays for longer when Jim reciprocates with a sway into him, turning himself inward and taking the cigarette away.

The plume lifts up between their embrace when Jim passes it to the side - his arm out of the way, Dallas takes the chance to bring both arms around him. A longer kiss, a longer confession - it stops when Dallas moves. Jim breathes a little harder, even with the chasteness of the kiss. He looks like he wants to say something - watching Dallas with eyes that can't say anything, and a mouth parted as if he's going to question, or joke, or kiss again.

Instead, Jim looks down, humbled. "Alright. Guess I know, now."

Dallas' smile is short lived, but the silent joy that came with it lingers. "Do you remember when we sat in the van?"

"A'course. Thought that's what you meant." He brings himself closer, like he's going to kiss again - but the ash just sits between them, their open mouths, a flirtation between the whispers.

"You said Nate." And that makes Jim grin - he can tell, because the corners of his cheeks lift, and he can feel the ghost of the smirk against his own mouth.

"C'mon - _that's_ your wish? Fuckin'…" Jim's eyes wander into Nathan's own. "Sentimental... bastard."

Another kiss. The cigarette is going to burn Jim's fingers, so it doesn't last long - Nathan doesn't even know who started that one, before it turns into a peck, then another. Jim gives himself space to take a final drag, hollowed cheeks to breathe it in, then drops it to the ashtray behind them, on one of the temporary folding tables. Both arms roam on to Nathan's torso, but it doesn't seem intentional; a meandering interest in the man who wants his memory.

Both of their eyes wander, to the corners of their faces and the space beside their heads - but both gazes eventually reach one another's eyes each time. The embrace lingers, Nathan's arms over Jim's and holding him like he'll threaten anything that comes around the corner to take him away again. Jim exhales a content sigh - it smells like ash and nicotine.

"This'll get dangerous," he says - it makes Nathan's breathing stall, before it returns to the lull of a quiet embrace the more Jim speaks. "You know—Clover 'round the corner and all. Getting _distracted_ by my company."

"I'll manage," Nathan says, and Jim's eyes roll.

"I meant _my_ company, you know. You." It's Nathan's turn to smile and give an almost-laugh, and Jim tilts his head, looking into the dark of Nathan's eyes. It feels better to worry about something so small, so insignificant as wandering eyes and office gossip. Better than bullets, threats, robberies. "Guess it could always be worse."

"It could always be," Nathan repeats. "But you're not going anywhere."

"I suppose I'm not," Jim says, and it's marked with a burnt smile.


End file.
